


The Queen's Choice

by Trivialqueen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: A variation on the arranged marriage AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/M, Many Original Characters - Freeform, Some serious changes to canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trivialqueen/pseuds/Trivialqueen
Summary: Éowyn is the last heir of the House of Eorl, but in order to take her throne she must become a woman by custom, she must marry. Éowyn likes few of her courtiers and trusts even less of them. She does trust one thing; however, she trusts that Gríma son of Gálmód loves her. It’s not a lot but it is enough, especially if she is ever going to have a chance to leave her mark on the pages of history. Grímowyn AU.





	1. Holding Hands

**Disclaimer** : One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offence nor infringement intended.

 **Summary** : Éowyn is the last heir of the House of Eorl, but in order to take her throne she must become a woman by custom, she must marry. Éowyn likes few of her courtiers and trusts even less of them. She does trust one thing; however, she trusts that Gríma son of Gálmód loves her. It’s not a lot but it is enough, especially if she is ever going to have a chance to leave her mark on the pages of history. Grimowyn AU.

 _Notes: Inspired in part by_ auri_mynonys  _who showed me how wonderful this ship can be. Also inspired by the fact that apparently if one wants more Grimowyn stories one has to write them. Loosely based around a series of prompts on DeviantArt a few years ago, the 30-Day OTP Challenge. Please feel free to comment and critique! I will be the first to admit that it has been some time since I read Lord of the Rings/ saw the movies. I know characterization will likely be off, I just hope it’s not too painful. Also, I apologize up front for the characterization of Théodred, please forgive the AU._

* * *

 

 

Théodred died as he had lived - in a woman’s bed. He died without legitimate issue, a fact Éowyn almost mourned more than her cousin’s death. Three years ago, King Théoden died, wasted away by a disease that ate him from the inside out. Three years before that Éowyn’s elder brother, Éomer, had fallen, along with the rest of his fellow riders, in a vicious warg attack as they patrolled the Misty Mountains. Seven years before that she lost both her parents – one to battle, the other to grief. At nigh twenty Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, niece of Théoden, was utterly without family. Her chest ached with the emptiness of orphanhood, loneliness drew the tears to her eyes and flavored them with salt and bitterness. What made her body shake and throat burn with blood and acidic bile, however, was not being utterly alone in the world. It was the larger issue, as large as Rohan itself. She was the last member of her family. She was the last legitimate member of the House of Eorl. She was now Queen.

Théodred had been retrieved from one bed and place in another, cleaned, groomed, and dressed in the softest white tunic and breeches, silver and gold thread forming intricate knots and patterns at the neck, wrist, and hem. On the morrow he would be interred but for now he was laid in a side chamber for visitation. _He is peaceful in his eternal sleep_ Éowyn thought, trying to stem the tide of tears, though her thoughts did not stray far from the morbid. For whatever reason that fact amused her. Her amusement amused her further until she giggled. The first was soft but a second came swiftly, a throaty arpeggio in contrast to her more wrenching sobs. The twitters dissolved into silent tremors – emotions too confused to sound. Éowyn – Queen – standing over the last of her kin giggling with tear stained cheeks and an emptiness that made her sway.

“My Lady?” His sonorous voice was full of concern, yet its worried tone lost none of its richness. Éowyn turned at the words and, damnit - shieldmaidens did not swoon - she felt the world shift under her unprepared feet. He, and his rich voice were to her in a moment, a gentle hand on her arm to steady her, to ground her. “Forgive me, my Lady, I did not intend to startle you so.”

Éowyn did not have to raise her eyes far to meet the piercing, crystal blue gaze of Gríma, son of Gálmód, Lord Counsellor. His deep-set eyes were focused on her intently, like he could read her very soul. Not that it was difficult at the moment, her soul was shattered, raw and bleeding along the broken edges. A tear rolled off her cheek and landed on her collarbone, breaking the spell the Counsellor’s eyes cast. Gently he removed his hand to retrieve his handkerchief. He pressed the cloth into her hand, it felt clean although it was rumpled and covered in faded ink stains. She dropped her gaze to the cloth, were his hand lingered on hers.

“I am needed?” Her voice was brittle. She made no move to dry her eyes, nor he to draw back his hand.

“No. I came to see if you needed...something.” He meant to say _someone_ but clearly thought “something” to be a more appropriate choice. What Éowyn needed was her family alive and with her again. What she needed was not to be sole heir to the throne. What she needed was not to be alone. She knew that Gríma knew this though he would not say it. She knew it like she knew that in spite the pain and trials of the world the sun would rise again. People feared Gríma, hated him as well. Théodred himself couldn’t stand the man but couldn’t be buggered to do the business of statecraft and so could not remove him from the small council. Had Éomer lived Éowyn knew he would have hated Gríma more than Théodred. Éowyn knew all the reasons to hate Gríma, son of Gálmód, from his mixed blood to his suspected mixed loyalties, his sorcery to his spiteful, often cruel temper. He was not to be trusted, Éowyn was well aware and yet also very willing to overlook it. His flaws were lessoned – not expunged – but blunted in her mind by one grace. One saving grace. Gríma _saw_ her. He saw her, Éowyn, not daughter of the noble Éomund or the White Lady of Rohan, not Princess, not _Queen_ but Éowyn. And what he saw he did not seek to change but rather sought to understand and what he could not he took in stride.

“I need my family.” She said, finally raised her hand and his handkerchief to dry her eyes, and more importantly buy her time to phrase her request.

“Would that I could, my Lady, I would reunite them at your side.” He offered, hand twitching slightly. Few people touched her, even fewer she suspected touched the man known at court as “Wormtongue”. Did he miss contact as much as she, she wondered suddenly.

“You are a truly loyal man, but I am aware you have limits.” Her face was dry, but she loathed to give up the now damp cloth in her hand. “I am not ready to leave.” Her eyes turned back to her cousin, the King while still above ground, silent but regal still. To leave would mean to enter a new reality, one she felt utterly unprepared for. “I am not ready to leave but cannot bare to be alone.” She returned her gaze to his and could see her own pain reflected in his eyes. If anyone knew what ‘alone’ was, it was this bastard son of Rohan. “Would you sit a while with an orphan?” She meant the question to lighten the mood. It did not. Gingerly she reached for his hand. A closer study of his face – his eyes, the set of his muscles where eyebrows should grow – told her he was still deciding how best to comfort her, feeling how much of her tone was safe sarcasm designed to shield other feelings. She laced her sword calloused fingers through his writing calloused ones and led him to the seat she had occupied and its long cold companion.

She sat, hand in his, forcing him to sit as well. Gently she squeezed his pale fingers.

“Perhaps soon I will be ready to face-” she paused, unsure of how to correctly articulate what had her so very – Valar she couldn’t even pick an emotion – trepidatious about the world and her new place in it.

Gríma squeezed her hand in return. He understood.


	2. Kissing

**Disclaimer** : One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offence nor infringement intended.

* * *

 

Éowyn slammed the door of her bower shut with enough force to jar the sword hanging on the wall behind it. It was not enough. She longed for something to throw, but casting an eye about, she saw nothing at hand that would shatter in the way she desired. Cursing was not nearly so satisfying as throwing something, but she would have to make do – and she did, issuing a streak of language bluer than the summer sky. She was a full six months into her majority and still the small council ruled Rohan. Théodred’s death made her little more than a puppet. Married. To assume what they had in the same breath stressed was her _duty_ and _birthright_ she would have to marry. The old laws they said, the true intent of “majority” was defined by the old ways, traditional rites. For a woman that meant marriage. _Oh, that she were born a man_ she thought bitterly for neither the first nor last time. A man became a man when he first drew blood in battle or slayed a beast if at peace. She would much prefer and be by far more successful if she could only be allowed to prove herself with a sword.

Éowyn had never thought to marry. Domestic life held little interest for her. Since she was seven and came to live with her Uncle at Meduseld she had intended to be a warrior. A shield _maiden_. Théoden had laughed when she told him and patted her lovingly and saying he was sure when she was older her mind would change. It did not. Éowyn had never desired a man. She had desires, oh she had desires in the abstract that left her hot and wanting but no son of Rohan had ever made her so… unbid a pair of luminous sky-blue eyes appeared in her mind, set in a face as pale as the moon and framed by hair as black as night. Éowyn had yet to find a man she wanted to turn wife for, and the prospect of a home did little to inspire searching. She had precious little freedom before but still more than she would as a wife when she would cease to exist civically and have a direct master – a husband – responsible for her “behavior”. Life as a ward was much easier, especially with a guardian such as Théodred. But no, if she wanted to be Queen in truth – to rule – if she wanted any of her rightful power, she would have to first give that up and marry.

Éowyn crossed to her bedchamber and threw herself atop her furs, her maids were blessedly elsewhere, probably taking her loud profanities and blasphemies as a sign to leave. She was grateful. Her patience had long since gone and could not be mustered for her ladies or their “well meaning”. Who would take her as a wife anyway? None. Many would willingly wed the Queen or even the Princess of Rohan. She’d known Riders, after she’d flowered, who’d professed their devotion to the White Lady, a few more who when drunk claimed they would tame the shieldmaiden and take her to wife. But who would take her, _Éowyn_ , orphan of Rohan with sorrowful eyes and a habit of speaking before thinking, as wife? Who would want her? Love her? The luminous eyes returned to her mind, full of light, of affection. This time she did not will them away (not that they ever were far from her mind). Gríma wanted her. It was as plain as the patrician nose on his face. He had always wanted her, and it seemed that he truly wanted all of her. He certainly _saw_ her – her light and shadow, her sorrow. He would be less stifling than other husbands, she would imagine. He would not have her in battle she knew, he was a protective as anyone in her family, but unlike her family he never objected to her learning to fight. He was possessive, she could see it in the way he looked at any man who dared speak to her – including Théodred while he lived. Yet he still gave her more of a choice than anyone yet. It was an odd balance, he so longed for her to be his and yet spoke to her as if she were an adult, an equal (at least as far as reason and thought and choice were concerned).

The Privy Council would hate it. She would (gentle hands and a warm touch came to her mind) not find it ideal – though her ideal, ideal was disappearing like mist.

Gríma had many, many flaws. She could name them – angry, cruel, envious, greedy, infamous, a liar, morally grey, obsessive, paranoid, spineless, spiteful, temperamental, deceitful, jealous, unethical... The list could go on, but everything circled back to one major, summary flaw. Gríma, son of Gálmód, was dangerous. Éowyn understood this. She also understood something else, something she found equally significant. Gríma would rather slice off his own hand than have her harmed by it. Gríma loved Éowyn. In a marriage, she supposed, that was important.

Gríma was a bastard (in personality and lineage) but his father was Rohirrim and by rights (ancient law, the very same that dictated she wed to be a woman) Gríma was also a son of Rohan. Any heirs (her mind reeled like a spooked horse at the thought, the very word) would also, by rights, by Rohirrim, only a quarter Dunlending and half the blood of the house of Eorl.

The Council would hate it, which was a boon, she thought bitterly. Their fault for forcing her hand. Gríma was extremely knowledgeable about the workings of the kingdom as well, he would be an asset beyond her spite. Her would be a counsellor and consort (no fear of the Council demanding her husband become a King).

There was also the small matter of the way his eyes pierced her soul and saw her true heart, the way his voice flooded her veins with fire, the comfort she took in the scent of ink and old paper and leather that was his signature, and the way she tingled when they touched. She would not be unhappy married to him. If marry she must. Éowyn sat up, her idle thoughts having crafted a shocking plan. And yet…. Insane or insightful it was moot unless Gríma agreed. The thought gave her pause. Gríma wanted her, she was well aware but was his desire strong enough to accept terms or was it in his nature to take completely. She shuddered and tingled at the thought. She needed to discuss this with someone, yet since her Uncle’s death the only person she would discuss matters of importance was the man in question. Éowyn raked a hand through her hair and then tugged in frustration. Valar this was hard.

After much pacing Éowyn resolved to sleep on it. Théoden had often advised a good night’s sleep before a decision. Éowyn hadn’t had a “good night’s sleep” or even a full night’s sleep in years, since Éomer’s helmet returned without him and she began to realize just how alone she was becoming. She could not give the idea a good night’s sleep, but she could give it a night’s contemplation. If she were to choose Gríma as her fate it would be forever. Could she live with that - for her country, her throne – could she bind herself to Gríma called _Wormtongue_ forever?

She spun the idea in her mind until it became a fine thread of thought and the spinning lulled her to sleep. For once her dreams were not plagued with death and despair. She did not watch Éomer fall, Théoden waste away, Théodred moldering in his grave. Instead she saw Gríma. She saw him reading beside a fire as she sharpened her sword. She dreamed of waking next to him (so unlike other dreams she occasionally had of him involving a bed), dream her looked down at his sleep relaxed face with a fond smile and a feeling in her chest - she was not unhappy with the raven-haired man. She woke the first time that night with the image of raven-haired daughters and blue, blue eyed sons fading like phantoms into the darkness of her bedchamber.

When she awoke in the morning her mind had supplied many images, but no objections. She was resolved. Éowyn was tired of being useless in her own kingdom. If power required her to marry, she would marry. She would wed a man of her choosing. If, of course, he accepted her. For all of Éowyn’s confidence this did not stop her from taking extra care with her appearance. She chose a beautiful gown of pale blue that matched his eyes quite nicely (which was certainly not what drew her to the fabric in the first place) and wore her hair half up, drawn back from her face by a silver clasp. He liked her hair best like this Éowyn had gathered, not that he seemed to dislike anything she did with her hair. Her jewels were simple, out of her preference rather than his. She saw no real use for heavy jewelry, though to be Queen she found herself forced to hang more and more ornaments about her body.

By the time she had broken her fast, been dressed, and found both the words and the courage to face him the shadows were long and deep. They seemed longer and deeper still around his chamber door. But she was Éowyn, Queen of Rohan, shieldmaiden. She was brave (or, at least pretending to be until she truly was). She knocked once, twice, thrice at his heavy wooden door. He answered after a beat, his sour expression sweetening when it registered who had disturbed his work.

“My Queen,” he said reverently before bowing. “What may a servant do for his Lady?” His Lady. She was always _Lady_ to him. She supposed she should object or correct him or something but his rich, full voice caressing every syllable as he said each carefully chosen one had her forgetting everything but the sound of him.

“I would have your advice, Counsellor” she said formally.

“I am honored you would consider me worthy to give it, my Lady.” He stepped back to allow her entrance. His words – and hers – were formal, part of the ritual of court, and yet as she entered his chambers unchaperoned, she was well aware she subverted as much as she upheld. She also hoped it would signal Gríma, to a degree, what her intentions were – at the very least that the advice was private. More abstractly the level of trust she had in him and in her skills of defense. This was not the first time she had been in his private rooms, but it was still rare enough to be unfamiliar. He was fastidious and organized in his housekeeping, if not so in his personal appearance. He offered her a chair by his fire, a small stack of books an indication that for as neat as it was the room was lived in. Once she was seated, he settled himself opposite her in a less used chair. He’d clearly offered her his place in his home.

“How may I be of service to you, my Lady?” He prompted once seated. Éowyn did her best not to worry at the hem of her sleeve with suddenly fidgety fingers.

“You are well aware that I cannot rule independently until, by the old laws, I am a woman.” He had been very present in the meeting when she had been informed of the state of the regency and her reign. Her statement was for context, a preface to her plan. He nodded.

“Indeed I am.”

“And you are also aware my womanhood and fitness as ruler is contingent on my marrying.” Again context. Another nod. “I do not suppose you’ve given much thought to an appeal, a way around this?” Of anyone in Rohan he best understood how she felt, what the decree did to her. Perhaps he had tried to find a way out, to give her the freedom he knew she longed for. If ever someone would make such a gesture it would be he.

“Alas, my Lady, I have not. I am sorry.” There was rare sincerity in his eyes. She sighed.

“I had known it was a vain hope.” She offered a faint, sad, wry smile. “As there is no way around it, I must go through with it. I cannot sit idly by and not do that which is my duty as the last of the house of Eorl.” She looked directly into those pale blue eyes and drew a deep breath.

“I have decided to marry.” A kaleidoscope of feelings shifted behind his eyes – surprise, pain, loathing, longing. For want of something to say he murmurs _my Lady_ again. It was not often that the great master of words was without speech. She wondered how many times it would happen in their conversation. If any of them would be from joy.

“I had never thought to marry, never desired it,” she continued, “Never desired anything save to fight and serve my country.” She watched him carefully, but he schooled his eyes like his features into an impassive mask.

“Now it seems the two are twined, my marriage and my country. I am the last of my line yet a Queen in name only. I never asked for the crown but now that it is mine I would use it. I would have actual power over the signs and signifiers of it.” She paused, waiting for him to process and understand. For this to work – for her to rule, for her to survive a married woman she needed to have his comprehension. Thankfully Gríma knew her, how her mind worked. He understood.

“A more than reasonable request, your Highness.” Talk of her duty brought the title, it was correct, but she found she didn’t like it. She was his Lady, if her plan succeeded, in more ways than one. “Have you given any thought to whom you might marry?” Loathing and longing appear again in his eyes and he could not drive them away, even with his infamous self-control.

“A little, more than what I want I have thought of what I do not want.” She paused but he did not speak. She continued, “I do not want a man to marry me for my throne nor because I am a pretty bauble to display on his arm. I would not be trammeled in my bower like a pet. I want what few freedoms men deem fit for a lady.” _And more_ she added to herself, but she fears that is beyond anyone’s power - Queen or husband. “I do not want to be transferred from regents to consort and be denied my chance to lead and serve.” He nodded.

“I do not want to be a foreign bride either. My life has become political I will not have my marriage be as well if I can help it. If I must marry, I want a marriage, not a treaty or an alliance.” The wheels of his mind began turning, weighing and cataloging all she had said.

“All reasonable fears and desires, your Highness, though I fear I do not know how to turn them into a husband.” She caught his eye and for once pinned him with her gaze not vice versa.

“Do you not?” The wheels spin faster. He swallowed.

“My Lady?” He is confused and he liked it even less than a tortoise likes its back.

“Everyone tells me you cannot be trust Gríma, son of Gálmód,” He opened his mouth, but she continued, “Perhaps it is true in matters of the court and politics. I have watched you cheat and win their games since you first came to serve my Uncle. I do not trust you with courtly secrets or to be without ambitions, but I do trust this,” she forced his eyes to hers again “I trust you not to harm me.” Something new bloomed in his gaze.

“I would rather die.” He breathed, their eyes still held, bound by some magic she could not put into words but felt as if it were a tangible thing between them.

“I believe you and because of my faith in this fact I – I” Here she stumbled, terrified and tantalized by his eyes. _Please_ she prayed, _please understand_. _Please see my trust for what it is, for its depth. You see_ me _, see_ this. “I would have you as my husband if it would please you.” Her words stopped his tongue and his breath – possibly his heart.

“I-I do not understand.” His voice shook and what she saw in his eyes scared her, sent her eyes to focus anywhere but the nakedness of his gaze.

“I trust you not to harm me Gríma and remember how you have caged me the least of the men in my life. You also are well informed in matters of the state. If I must marry you are my best choice.” It was not a romantic proposal, but it was honest. She hoped that was enough.

“You cannot be serious, my Lady. I am not the one you wish to wake up to in the morning, not the man you deserve-” It was said Gríma undressed her with his eyes every chance he got and yet here he was turning her down as best one could reject a Queen.

“You presume to know what I want? I decide my own fate, Gríma, I decide what I deserve, what I want. I have precious few choices, but I have made this one. If you reject me do it for yourself but _do not_ make a choice for me.” She found his eyes and _willed_ and waited.

“I fear it will not make you happy, my Lady, being married to me.”

“I will also not be _unhappy_ married to you Gríma. Please, trust me.” They held one another’s gaze, each endeavoring to read what they could of the other. And then he fell to his knees before her.

“My Lady,” He breathed, “I have nothing to offer you in exchange for the gift that is your hand. I have not but myself, but I offer you all that I am and all that I will be if you do me the great, great honor of being my wife.” For a moment Éowyn wonders if this would be like how he would propose if their situation was different. Then she realized if the situation were different, he would never dare ask and she would never accept, no matter how his crystal eyes made her breath catch. Slowly she raised a hand to cup his cheek, thumb ghosting over the rise of bone.

“Your honesty will suffice, but I am the one who is honored.” Gently she drew him to her, raising his face until they were level.

His lips were thin under hers but nothing else was as she imagined. The kiss was gentle, soft and sweet. Warm. Warmth radiated through her from where their lips touched to her toes. It curled in her breast and settled in her heart, infusing each pump of blood with something _more_. His fingers lightly touched her jaw as if he was afraid anything more would send her away but desperate to know she was not a dream. He caught her full lower lip between his when she tilted her head and he lightly sucked the flesh, tasted her with his warm and wanted tongue but did not try to breach her mouth. Éowyn’s eyes had fluttered closed at first contact and for a moment there was nothing in the world but this sweet, perfect kiss from Gríma, Son of Gálmód. They parted too soon and with a sad sigh. She opened her eyes slowly, her hand still on his cheek, his fingers barely a breath on her jaw, his eyes intently studying her face.

“My Lady” He breathed, uncertain and adoring. She smiled, for once not having to force it.

“My Lord.” She replied and kissed him again.


	3. Side-by-side in battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offense nor infringement intended.
> 
> There are several original characters appearing in this chapter, I hope they are not too confusing or distracting. I have no idea if Rohan's government and politics actually work this way, but I tried to be at least somewhat logical.

“The council will not like this, my Lady”, Gríma said gently. They sat alone in her bower some three days after Éowyn offered her hand and Gríma had bared part of his very being. They had parted that day to think and take in what was done, the taste of each other on their lips. Since then they could not find a private moment in which to speak and move forward. The opportunity Éowyn created now was far from ideal, her attendants had been less than willing to allow her a moment of privacy with any man, certainly not one alone with Wormtongue. In the end Éowyn had ordered their eviction and bared a knife, assuring them she was more than capable of defending her honor without their chaperoning. The knife now sat sheathed between the on the table – a symbol of trust but also a warning not to abuse it.

“Perhaps by now Avigayle will have run to warn them of my impropriety and we will be spared the tell and arguing.” Éowyn said lightly.

“They would like that even less – as would I.” His resonant voice was deep and cold, like a cave. She turned her eyes to his. She could not read him near as well as he could her, but she had learned that his eyes were her best chance at knowing her counsellor’s mind. The clear blue of his gaze was like ice, as his voice had been. Hurt and anger were freezing her out in that moment. Her glib comment had touched a nerve. _Have I sacrificed his pride for my choice?_ She wondered. Pride was potent and Gríma had more than his fair share, guarded jealously against the court that called him bastard and Wormtongue openly, gleefully.

“I am sorry Gríma, I meant nothing by my jest.” She reached for his hand resting on the arm of his chair, pale skin contrasting brightly with the dark velvet of his sleeve. He seemed more mollified with her use of his name than with the apology itself. He laced his fingers through hers. As a child people had touched her – a pat, a hug. Éowyn had not been a child for many years. Contact was rare and intoxicating. Éowyn kept her hand in his, gazing at the dagger between them with peculiar amusement.

“The council will not like it, but they cannot stop it, can they?” His thumb ghosted over hers and she felt something in her quake – not with fear but _something._

“Not with any law I have found.” His thumb repeated itself.

“Then what they do or do not like is immaterial.” She pronounced haughtily. What the council disliked most of all was relinquishing the reins of power, especially to a woman who should be not but a wall hanging in their court – beautiful to look at, acceptable in the background but silent and inactive.

“They cannot stop you with laws, but they will dissuade you other ways.” She squeezed his fingers and caught his eye.

“They will _try_ to dissuade me in other ways, but my mind is made up and I am quite stubborn.” The corner of his mouth ticked up in a small smirk at her words.

“They are stubborn as well, Éowyn, this will be a fight.” He savored her name as if he was savoring a wine on his palate and she savored the way each syllable sounded on his tongue.

“I am a shieldmaiden of Rohan, I do not shrink from battle.” Something about her bold claim touched him and he raised her hand to his lips. The brush of them flooded her senses.

“I never imagined the day I would join you in battle.” Recovering herself took a moment but when she felt she could speak she drew his hand to her lips. Gently she placed a kiss on the back of his hand, a twin of her own.

“In this battle I cannot think of anyone I want by my side more than you.”


	4. Doing Something Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offense nor infringement intended.

“RIDICULOUS” Acwellen was apoplectic, his face a vivid shade of cerise. “Absolutely ridiculous! Have you taken leave of your senses?!” Éowyn stood tall, her muscles tensed and ready to react should the minister act on his very obvious desire to take and shake her.

“She has not but it seems you have to dare and address the Queen in such a way.” Gríma’s voice was dangerous as he stepped to Éowyn’s side, coming to stand not quite between Queen and regent. He would protect this woman – his heart – it was as much a part of his existence as breath, but he was also well aware his Lady could take care of herself. At Gríma’s words Acwellen’s face intensified another three shades. Éowyn was fairly certain she could see blood vessel bursting in his raging hazel eyes.

“What Acwellen means to ask, your Highness is: are you certain you have thought this through?” Camdene said smoothly approaching to lay an assertive hand on Acwellen’s meaty shoulder. The enraged man shrugged it off but did step away from Éowyn, channeling his incandescent rage into pacing. He stomped to and fro while Irmgard marches back and forth. He is equally as displeased but less inclined to violence than his fellow council member. All their pacing makes her dizzy, as does her own anger which churns convective in her stomach. She knew the council would fight her. Gríma had warned her the council would fight her. Yet she was still taken aback by the vitriol of her ministers.

“I would not waste your time if I was not certain, my Lord. I have thought about my decision and I have decided.” She cannot help the haughty tilt of her chin, she is _Queen_ even if for the moment it is in name only. She means to change that. _That_ is what has the regents so displeased. She will take her rightful power and in doing so remove their borrowed sovereignty. Camdene inclines is head in acknowledgment the gesture smacking of condescension though his face is politically passive.

“As you say,” He says, tone shifting to false-sympathy. He lacks Gríma’s subtle manipulation and it leaves a sour taste in the back of her throat. “I understand your desire to wed, to become a woman and Queen but-”

“Your intended ‘husband’ is a dirty blooded half breed not fit to look upon you.” Camdene thinks himself so very intelligent, so clever and cunning. Eldrid does not, he knows he is no scholar, but he is the richest man in the Riddermark, and he strongly believes that entitles him to a say. _At least he is always up front in his feelings_ Éowyn must credit him. He was always good for saying what others were thinking.

Éowyn steals a look at Gríma before speaking. The fury that blazes in his eyes would raze Edoras to the ground and salt the earth. Yet it remains contained in his eyes, his shoulders, his snow-white knuckles. No expression crosses his face, words pass is lips. _Is this how it always is?_ She had understood he was disliked, that his life at court was difficult but this? To face this hate every day and stay was much braver than she gave him credit for. Since no one, not even Gríma would correct the statement Éowyn would make herself clear.

“Gríma’s father Gálmód, son of Gálmen was Rohirrim – a Ranger at that, by our laws – our ancient laws a child is of their father’s nation Gríma is Rohirrim by this custom, as much a son of Rohan as you my lord in this matter his mother is of no matter.” Éowyn hated herself for saying it because to her mind Gríma’s mother mattered a great deal, having raised him largely by herself without much compassion from either people Rohirrim nor Dunlending. (Years ago, she had caught him leaving Meduseld with a wreath of Simbelmynë and in a rare moment of openness spoke of his mother, long dead and her strength. It was not a long story, but it was a piece of him she had not known, and it had gone a long way in helping her assemble the puzzle of his person.)

“He has filled your head with this! He has put you up to it!” Irmgard growls, jabbing an arthritic finger at Gríma.

“Filled my head with what? Our law? The history of the house of Eorl? I was aware of customary law before, but since you informed me that I cannot have my rightful throne until I marry because my majority is contingent on my status as wife, I have refreshed myself on all law. Nationality and race follow the father. Furthermore, nothing prohibits me from marrying a foreigner all together.”

“The people will not trust him. He is untrustworthy.” Eldrid spoke again, no slurs slung this time.

“It is a good thing he will be consort not King then.” She bit out, she would be Queen in truth not only symbol. “Moreover, _I_ trust him and as it is _my_ marriage, I dare say my faith is more important than yours.” It was not an outright lie but her truth was more complicated. She trusted Gríma not to harm her everything else she was wary of.

“Rohan has never had a Queen before, that a woman should lead is unheard of!” Ah, there it was, the truth, ugly and falling free from Acwellen’s lips his face had faded to roan but he had indeed burst a blood vessel.

“Not as unheard of as your claim counsellor.” Éowyn took a step toward the meatier man. Beside her Gríma shifted he seemed content for the moment to let her speak and rebut every barb but not to let her get what he deemed as “too close” to her most volatile minister. From the corner of her eye she could see his serious expression but also the awe in his eyes. He liked her as a warrior whether she was fencing with swords or words.

“There is perhaps no example in memory of a Queen, but ancient law has considered it or else you,” she glared about the room, “would not have found that convenient rule which forces me to marry. Ancient law considered it a possibility else we would not be here in the first place.” Gríma and Camdene were both staring openly at her now – Gríma’s eyes shining in admiration, Camdene’s stormy and dark and foul.

“Think of your heirs my lady,” Irmgard spoke up, “would you leave on the throne a half Dunlending ruler-”

“Quarter!” Gríma snapped, “A child of this union would be a quartering, not a half-breed like I.” Éowyn winced at the bitterness of his words, they dripped corrosive sarcasm onto the floor as they hung in the air. Éowyn was certain they were eating through the floor with their acidity.

“My child would also be half the blood of Eorl – half Royal and the people would follow him or her because they will be kind and strong and just.” The thought of children – children with Gríma knocked her for six and flooded her with feelings she would lock away and examine never.

“You would actually have a child with… with a lying Dunlending viper-worm?” Eldrid couldn’t decide on one insult so he used them all.

“You forget yourself my Lord.” She said, her voice frosty as she stepped between Gríma and Eldrid, “I will have children with my husband should Valar see fit that I conceive. I will have Gríma, son of Gálmód as my consort, I will take my place on the throne as Queen in truth as is my duty and right as the last heir of the house of Eorl. The weight of custom is on my side. Now, either find a law that says otherwise, prove me illegitimate, or commit treason and ferment rebellion. These are your options of you truly wish to keep me from the throne.” She glared at each man in turn, taking in their shock and anger.

“If you have nothing further, I will see you at a later date to plan my marriage and coronation.” Head held high she swept from the council chamber and swooped down the hall in a billow of skirts.

“My Lady!” Gríma’s sonorous voice rang down the hall and slowed her stride. He caught up with her quickly, his steps nearly silent on the flagstone. _No wonder he is the master of whispers_. His eyes when he reached her were near impossible to read. She thought them angry, awestruck, lustful, worried, and amused in turns.

“Forgive me my Lady but what were you thinking back there?” Angry. One of his emotions was decidedly angry – with her. Éowyn bristled. He had absolutely no right to be angry with her when he left her to do all the speaking, including defending him.

“I was thinking that you could have said much more, my Lord.” She snapped. The bite of her voice made his icy eyes dance with fire. He is standing close to her, toe to toe, close enough that she can feel his tension roll off of him like waves. His presence, his anger is heady and makes her warm in the belly like too much wine.

“I had thought you had done beautifully until you told them to try and depose you.” He seizes her upper arms for emphasis and stares into her eyes, her soul. “Do you truly have a death wish or do you not think at all before you speak?” He growled. “No, perhaps you wish to start a civil war so that you may finally achieve glory on the field of battle. Is that what you want Éowyn?” His burning rage ignites her, and she shoves him – hard – sending him stumbling, his grip on her arms severed.

“How dare you?!” They are in a corridor, not so far from where she left four angry, hateful politicians. They could at any moment come upon the – the Queen and her chosen consort gnashing teeth and snapping at each other like starved dogs.

“How dare I what, your Highness? Be concerned for your personal and political safety? Inform you when you misstep and take completely unnecessary, ridiculous risks? I thought part of why you chose me – other than to infuriate the council, which congratulations you did – was for my advice. Éowyn, do you not understand what you just did?”

Gríma was as unattractive as his name cruelly suggest. His face would not improve even if he had eyebrows and thicker lashes and yet there was something about his fury that stole breath from her and touched a chord in her that pooled liquid heat – liquid want – between her legs in the place she only touched in the darkest of nights. With his eyes flaming fury, she suddenly knew want, she knew desire like Gríma felt.

“I was defending my right to marry _you_ should you not be pleased, my Lord, or have I misread the way you’ve stared since I flowered?” Oh, she was vicious. Oh, she didn’t care, not when he was so beautifully angry. Except he wasn’t, not any more, rather than fan the flame she doused it in water, drowning it in…pain. The rawness in his eyes distracted her and he used it to his advantage. Éowyn found herself pressed between the stone wall and the surprisingly firm chest of Gríma Wormtongue. One long hand held her waist, the other anchored in her golden hair, yanking her head to an angle that allowed him to slant his lips over hers with bruising force. His anger and pain making him lash out, his kiss spiteful. His tongue, that had been clay in the council meeting, was now quicksilver, plundering her mouth without mercy. Éowyn’s hands grasped at the front of his tunic, pulling him closer still as her own tongue rose to his challenge, wrestling for control, sneaking out to explore his mouth as he explored hers. He ripped a throaty moan from her chest as he flicked that talented tongue against a spot along the roof of her mouth. The sound seemed to jerk him from his temporary insanity. He wrenched his lips from hers, breathing hard, still pressing her into the wall. His cold eyes bored into her very being.

“Do not mock my feelings _my_ Lady.” He growled, “And I was not the only one who began staring when you flowered, now was I Éowyn?” And with that he was gone, leaving her slump against the wall lips bruised, confused and aching.


	5. On a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offense nor infringement intended.

In the week following her announcement to the council they did not stage a coup. They, in fact, began filling her in on the detail of the kingdom and its operation, albeit begrudgingly. For the moment they seemed to think their hands tied. Éowyn wanted to believe this, that the regents had realized she was ready to be Queen and were thus preparing to transfer power. Yet Gríma’s words, spat in the hall, seeded doubt. Would these ambitious men truly give up the power they enjoyed to a woman they viewed as inferior?

She saw Gríma at the meetings, he was after all a regent, the Lord Counsellor to the previous two Kings, her intended first minister and consort. He sat beside her and offered his insights to her (either with the groups or in a snide aside – his wit was not avoiding her although the rest of him seemed to be) and he escorted her on his arm every chance he could, holding her to his side a little more than was quite proper. He did not kiss her as he had in the hall, all tongue and teeth, nor did he kiss her like the day they were betrothed, soft and sweet. He did not kiss her at all, save the faintest blush of his lips to the back of her hand when he deposited her at her destination.

The week had been in a word: Long. Maddening. His sudden avoidance annoyed her as did her longing. She did not miss him, but oh how strange it was to be without him. At least during the day, at night memories of his fierce kiss and her fiercer reaction came in her dreams. When before he only visited her dreams at the turn of the moon now it was every night with a new temptation, a new desire – the same empty ache in the morning.

Another three days passed before Éowyn crumbled and sought him. Gríma’s patience was infamous (and she would add infuriating), it was no secret (certainly not to her, not to half the court) that he wanted her, how could he cut himself off from her? Especially when he was now so firmly under her skin. She wouldn’t stand for it. And so, she stood before his chamber door, unchaperoned as she had before. He was her intended, damnit. She missed – that thought she shook violently away.

“My Lady,” Gríma greeted her much as he did the last time she came to him.

“My Lord, I came to see if you were busy this evening.” He studied her face for a moment before inclining his head.

“I am my Lady’s humble servant.”

“After our evening meal.” It began haughtily but did not continue thus, “I would spend some time with you before we are married.” The set of his jaw softened slightly.

“As my Lady wishes.” Éowyn stiffly nodded.

“I-I will see you tonight.”

Éowyn found herself unfocused the rest of her day until dinner. Through dinner nerves settled in her stomach but could not take root as Camdene kept most of her attention engaged, focused on his interpretation of matters. Since announcing her intentions to rule each of the regents endeavored to curry her favor, hoping to maintain control even if they lost power. Camdene’s strategy seemed to be provide her with information and pretend he wished her to lead. It was a preferable tactic to the others, but she was wary nonetheless. Gríma lied to everyone but she was assured he cared for her. The rest of the council made no guarantees. Camdene’s approach at least spoke to a degree of understanding, unlike the rest of her regents.

Irmgard would not stop speaking of tradition and law like he would teach her how to be Rohirrim and what that meant, as if she was an outsider. Éowyn knew she had made a non-traditional choice, but it was grounded very much in ancient law. She would argue that if she was less knowledgeable in her people’s ways she would never have known of her options. Acwellen had taken to badgering her with what he said her father, brother, uncle, or cousin would have done, would have wanted, as if he knew the well enough to know their minds (laughable considering Éomer had died so young and could hardly stand their uncle’s counsellors while he was alive) and that their choices would say Éowyn. Perhaps if they lived and were able to discuss with her, she would have more of a care for their desires. But they were dead and gone (else she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place) and their old opinions mattered little in new situations. Eldrid chose to buy her good will, crass and unsophisticated, yet oddly preferable. Éowyn supposed there was something to be said for blatant intent, and for the beautiful _Tablut_ board he’d presented her a few days after her announcement. _To practice strategy,_ he’d suggested, though he was most interested in pointing out the craftsmanship of the carving, the details in the bone face of the _Queen_ – a change to original play he emphasized he commissioned.

The pieces were set for play now, back in her bower and she hoped Gríma was the competitor she imagined. They had known each other for years, crossed verbal swords for equally as long but there was always a buffer between them – propriety and her family namely. Those barriers were tumbling down by her own hand, falling away and leaving her bare to a man she only trusted in the slimmest of ways. She was choosing this, this was her choice. Yet fear and doubt still lingered. The game would give her distance. She could feel the caress of his gaze over dinner, warm on her skin. She needed distance.

“My Lady” Gríma said, his voice every bit the caress his gaze had been, there was sorcery in his voice she was certain. There had to be for it to affect her so.

“My Lord” she breathed. Gríma’s eyes smiled though his face remained his customary smug mask. So impassive was his face he didn’t even lord the way she took his arm over Camdene. Camdene’s face was less controlled, he glowered, and his eyes spat daggers at them both.

“May I escort you to your chambers?” She gave him a smile, she could for once confidently see the entirety of his action. He would assert himself against Camdene – he had her attention and ear at dinner but Gríma had her. Had her willingly. Had her so assuredly he didn’t even view Camdene as a threat (though he decidedly did, Éowyn knew his paranoia, all of Rohan and the world beyond was a threat). They walked in silence from the hall to her chambers. At the door he paused, a flicker of uncertainly in his eyes.

“Do you play _Tablut_ , my Lord?” She asked, she knew little of his habits outside work she realized. Was there anything to him besides work? “I have received recently a beautiful board and have yet to have a chance to play.” She opened her bower door. “Would you play a game or two with me?” Her turn of phrase, innocent and utterly risqué made a lusty smirk twist his lips.

“It would be my great pleasure, my Lady.” Her ladies had done as she asked, setting the board between two chairs beside the hearth, spiced wine and two goblets sat at the sideboard. Her maids, Avigayle and Catelynn sat at their needlework off to one side, discreet chaperones. They rose when she entered and sat when she asked. They watched Gríma like Éowyn had a viper draped around her neck. Gríma watched them like they would scream for the guards. Éowyn watched with tension thrumming through her, this was impossible.

“Wine, my Lord?” She asked.

“My Lady is kind but no thank you.” Éowyn did not allow him to deter her. She poured herself a generous glass before her ladies might serve a more refined portion and settled herself in a chair. Gríma placed himself opposite, long fingers plucking the carved Queen from the center of the board.

“I believe with this our game pieces are determined.”

“So they are.” Her smirk was a challenge, “Capture me if you can.” His eyes sparkled.

Gríma was, as she had suspected and hoped, fiercely competitive and a talented advisory. If the game rules were not so weighted toward the King’s pieces Éowyn wasn’t so certain that he would not destroy her. As it was, he did his utmost to, not allowing her a single space she did not earn, unlike her brother and cousin who she knew used to let her win. They always treated her like she was made of glass and less capable of handling reality than they. Games were won and lost in real life, but they seemed to think she would be unable to understand that. Gríma treated her like she was precious but not fragile. The difference was subtle but significant, especially to her. It was what had drawn her to him in the first place.

They played until her ladies protested the hour as too late to be proper. She won each game but only just, and she was certain if this game had not been interrupted, he might have finally bested her. They had spoken idly as they played, the most she’d ever spoken to him since he came to Edoras over a decade ago. With constant monitoring their conversations had been mostly shallow, some about the wedding a little of courtly politics, mostly just an exchange of banal comments laced with meaning that made her insides twist. She did her best to give as she got but he was a master, an artisan in the craft of innuendo. His voice had to be enchanted, there was no other way. He must’ve bespelled her, she decided as she walked him to her door. It was the only way to explain why she would press her lips to his in the corridor. The kiss, chaste but heavy with meaning, future promises of kisses not monitored by chaperones.

“Eowyn,” her name a prayer on his lips as they pulled away.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Gríma.”


	6. Getting Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offense nor infringement intended.

The morning of her wedding dawned grey and stormy, an ominous sign by any standard. Not that it took much to send Éowyn’s thoughts swirling. She could not sleep the night prior, her mind voicing every concern she or anyone else had ever had. _Could she trust Gríma?_ The man was called Wormtongue – it was mostly a slander, but she was aware there was a shade of truth. He always claimed his loyalty yet would a truly loyal man do so at every turn? The doubt swirled as she breaks her fast on brown bread and soft cheese and sweetened tea.

Rebuttals began to surface as her ladies bathed her and pulled a comb through her long hair. By the time Genowefa began to sculpt her golden tresses into an elaborate bridal arrangement she is at war with herself. Éowyn has heard how people speak of Gríma, how people speak to his face. She knows what people who know him say and she can only imagine what is said of him by those who know only rumor. He must constantly affirm his loyalty lest people assume his mother’s blood would lead him to follow in the Wulf’s steps. He did lie, he did listen in the shadows but that was how the game of politics was played, especially with the status of the throne in such an uncertain state. Rohan had not a Queen before. Théodred before her had been a distracted ruler at best. He had an illegitimate Rohirrim son, nigh four years old but still a specter of civil war as much as he was the image of his royal father. Gríma was aware of the game long before the rest and he was the best at its play. She could not hate him for that, especially when she intended to use his skills to her advantage.

By the time she was being laced into her wedding gown (a beautiful if completely overdone cream dress covered in pearls and intricate knots of gold thread) doubts were retreating if not in the face of reason then in the fact that this marriage was going to occur with or without her confidence. She was past the point of no return. She was going to marry Gríma in just a few hours. She was going to bed the man they called Wormtongue and emerge a woman in her majority in the eyes of tradition, custom, and ancient law, and her thrice-dammed council. She was going to take her crown and become a leader of her people. It was not how she intended to serve her country but she was called to do it so she would make the most of it. Éowyn, Warrior Queen. It did have a certain panache.

But first she marries. She cannot take any sort of control over her life until she is wed. How strange that her uncle’s pale counsellor is the key to her fate, her freedom.

Gríma wants her. Gríma loves her. Gríma will not harm her. She does not trust him, but she trusts this. She builds her marriage and her plans on this. Resolved and decorated until she hardly recognizes herself Éowyn raises her chin and goes to meet her husband, to bind herself to a man until he and she are one. So, she becomes Éowyn Queen.


	7. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offence nor infringement intended.

Then

Gríma did not dance. Éowyn was well aware of this, as was everyone else at court. Most assumed he couldn’t, with even more pointing out that even if he did know their dances no woman in their right mind would stand up with him anyway. His avoidance of the dance floor at feasts and festivals made him stick out amongst the crowd as much as his raven hair, raven clothes, and sallow, sunless skin. This, Éowyn suspected was the true reason he stuck to the walls when the dancing began, slinking from shadow to shadow yet never joining, never leaving either. That was the thing Éowyn noticed even as she stood up with her uncle, brother, cousin, later riders and soldiers. He never left the hall when the dancing began. He remained, he did not dance and Éowyn saw how he did not dance. It seemed to be his perverse delight to reject everything about them. Angrily she considers these the actions of a miserable, spiteful man. Darkest night brought more compassionate thoughts – the kind she would never admit in the light.

Why should he try to fit in? He was literally born to stand out with his coloring so clearly indicating his foreign blood. Why should he want to fit in? Even the deaf, dumb, and blind of Edoras knew of the disdain Gríma Wormtongue received. He was, at every turn, reminded that he did not belong, that he was not wanted. Even she told him so, though in her core she knew her reasons were different – very different from the rest of court. They hated his black hair for its marker of Dunlending blood. She hated the way she wondered if it was silky to the touch. She feared his ice blue eyes for the flame they lit in her. Gríma does not dance, but as Éowyn is spun out at the hand of her handsome partner she catches a raw longing in his eyes as he watches. Perhaps, she thinks, one day she will change that.

 

Now

Gríma does not dance, but for Éowyn he does. They were married just hours before in as simple a ceremony as a royal could have with notably fewer guests than the last royal wedding when Théoden took Elfhild to wife. But then half the court didn’t wish the royal consort dead, no one dreamed of boycotting that royal union. Gríma is not Elfhild and many refuse to attend the wedding and acknowledge him as Éowyn’s husband. They refused to acknowledge him at all. The feast is tense, those who did attend bound and determined to pretend nothing is amiss, all the while pointing out that something is in fact very wrong in their minds. Nonetheless they ate and drank, Gríma even smiled once as they spoke in hushed tones at the high table.

“I would have a dance from you,” she informed him quietly. His smile disappeared.

“My Lady?” His eyes are troubled, trapped between want and wary. It’s an expression she has seen with growing frequency of late.

“I would like to dance with my husband.” She touches his hand. She learned early that a fleeting touch went a long way in persuading him. He who no one touched, save with violence.

“That is if you wish to. I admit I have never seen you dance but I had hoped…” she trails off, the thread of her thought frayed and lost under his penetrating gaze.

“I am not one for dancing I am afraid.” Swallowing Éowyn meets his gaze head on. The release of tension and stress that was pre-wedding preparation mixed with sweet wine making her a little giddy and a lot bold.

“Do you not know how, or have you simply chosen to abstain all these years?” the tone of his eyes shifted to a critical, probing study as if he was trying to read her mind and parse her meaning.

“I confess I have never had the desire to join in.” It was a gamble to presume she knew anything about the man she married, especially regarding his motives or emotions. But she was bold, she was Éowyn, warrior Queen. The woman who asked a man – this man – to marry her.

“If ever you have wished to spite the court dancing with me would be a perfect opportunity.” She whispered, so close to his ear she could smell the soap on his skin, see his long black hair flutter under her breath. He stiffens then pulls back eyes shocked (and lustful). She looks back, meeting his eyes boldly.   _You see me unlike anyone else in this city and I see you_.  He cannot read her mind but smiles anyway, lacing his fingers through hers and bringing her hand to his lips.

“Nothing”, he says softly, warmly with just a twist of amusement in his tone, on his lips. “Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than a dance with my wife.”

Gríma does not dance, but as she takes his hand and leads him to the floor Éowyn thinks _he does make a statement._


	8. Making Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One Disclaimer to rule them all – I own not but the mistakes. No offence nor infringement intended.
> 
> This chapter has some wedding night suggestiveness but nothing toooo smutty I don't think. This may or may not be welcomed news.

Éowyn slides her brush through her golden tresses for the… she lost count long ago time. Every kink and knot had long since been smoothed and the boar’s hair brush slid through her strands like water. Yet she continued to brush, the repetitive motion soothing to her racing thoughts. Éowyn was a shieldmaiden, she was brave. Save in this one thing. Sitting in her bedchamber after her marriage she would rather face a warg than her husband. _Husband_. The full implication of that word hit her squarely for the first time. Excuses were for the weak but in this case she was inclined to blame her family. Oh, how she loved her uncle but though he called her a woman he’d never really saw fit to engage someone for her to explain what exactly that meant in practical terms. Yes, she’d learned how to sew and sing and dance and dress. But other things? Other than to congratulate her on flowering and provide her rags at the turn of the moon no one spoke of a woman’s body, a woman’s desire. A woman’s expectations and experience in her marriage bed. None of her maids had offered advice, even the married ones and Éowyn was unsure of how to even ask, unsure of what she was unsure about. It was too late now, regardless. She had dismissed her ladies for the night. Her only visitor would be her lord husband. Gríma. Gríma loved her, she reminded herself, he would not harm her. He would understand.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want – she did. She wanted him even, in a way she could not explain but felt nonetheless. She shouldn’t want him. He was reviled. Ugly. A liar. And yet his eyes could make her stop – moving, breathing, thinking. His presence made her dizzy when he stood too close as he was want to do. She wanted, but she knew not what to do with her want. The brush continued through her hair. Again. And again, until a soft knock at her door made her heart stop. The brush fell from her hand and clattered onto the floor. He was here. Slowly she turned, staring intently at her closet door. _Do the brave thing and bravery will follow_ she thought, unsure of where she heard the maxim but heeded it all the same.

Éowyn put all of her boldness into opening the door. Gríma stood in the hall, wrapped in a thick dark robe, looking as calm as she. Outside they both looked prepared but inside she knew she was lost and didn’t wonder if her new husband wasn’t as well.

“My Lord.” She greeted him, her voice blessedly steady.

“My Lady.” He replied, rich voice also steady and soothing. She stepped back and he followed her. They avoided eye contact. The door closed behind him, loud in their silence and suddenly they were alone together. It was different sort of alone than they had shared prior. Those moments had had meaning, innuendo and promise, but this one, this one had follow through. It was a moment of action.

Éowyn moved deep into her chamber, until the large bed blocked her path and reminded her of her duty. Taking a fortifying breath, she turned to him. Gríma was watching her move with a soft expression. Lust was not the brightest light in his luminous gaze though it flickered there. No, the brightest light was something else – delicate and rare. Affection, perhaps? Devotion? Love. It humbled her, his love for her. It also comforted her. In this she had made the right choice. She had trusted him not to hurt her and though a sycophant of the finest ilk there was no faking that flame.

“I confess,” She said with a self-deprecating smile, “my careful plans did not continue this far. You find me at a loss.” The light in his eyes extended over his face, extended to her in a small way.

“If you do not wish to-” He licked his thin lips, “tonight you only need say Éowyn and I will bid you good night.” The way he said her name with such care, tongue and teeth caressing each syllable on his palate while he spoke touched her core. His offer touched her heart. _He will not harm you_ she smiled and took a step closer to him. He was not a large man, only three or so inches taller than she but dressed in his courtly garb he seemed – larger, more intimidating. Dressed in a thick fur robe, leather slippers, and soft looking leggings he was smaller, more vulnerable. Intimate.

“I will not be any braver on the morrow.” She said with a smile that faded slowly. “And we are not truly married by law and custom until I am wedded and bedded. We are only half there.” In the morning her maids would come for her sheets, pure white cloth stretched over her bed there to catch the proof of her virtue and her deflowering.

“True,” He said, stepping closer. The flame in his eyes dulled slightly, like a curtain drawn around a lantern. “But I will not do something that makes you uncomfortable. My patience is legendary, I am content to wait for you.”

She would have him tonight. She will be maiden no longer come morning, a woman by every metric. She will. She would. She must.

“Rather than wait for me to be comfortable why don’t you make me so?” She asked, finding a reserve of courage in the face of uncertainty somewhere in her soul. Boldly she stepped to him, placing her hands on his chest. His hands covered hers and she can feel his warmth. He is a cold man with ice in his eyes, his attitude yet he gives of tremendous heat. He looked down at her, the light she saw earlier a little brighter.

“And how might I do that, my Lady?” He is in earnest. Not teasing or mocking but genuine in his concern, his intent.

“Kiss me.” And he does. Oh, how he does. His kisses are… like air and she is suffocating. She cleaves to him, each brush of his lips taking her to new heights and also the only thing anchoring her to the world. It is not the battle they raged with teeth and tongues in the hall lo those weeks ago when she informed the Council of Regents of her intent. All the same something in her wakes, powerful and hungry. Her hands find their way into his hair, her tongue discovering a place behind his front teeth that if she quickly grazes with the tip of her tongue, she could make his hips jerk involuntarily. His lips wander, discovering a tender place behind her jaw, under her ear that if sucked makes her shudder. He laved such attention there that she could not see straight, taking his lead she explores him as well. Explores with her lips and teeth and tongue. His throat was extremely sensitive, and each moan reverberated under her lips and through her, making her tingle and crave.

His lips were not the only explorers. His hands were all over – laced in her hair, caressing her cheek, her throat, clutching at her waist and kneading her breast in a way she had never imagined and never wanted to stop. Her hands were far from idle as they kissed and sucked, licked and nipped. From his hair they descended to his chest feeling the build of him under her palms. He was no warrior by any means, but like her, despite what people thought, not actually made of glass. Her hands moved lower, to the front of his leggings where she could feel him straining against his laces. He seemed to howl as she cupped him through the fabric, his hips rocking to her hand seemingly of their own will.

He pulled his lips from hers with much effort and a wet pop.

“Are you more comfortable my Lady?” He asked in a hoarse voice so wrecked it sounded not his own. Her eyes, which had closed long ago, fluttered opened and were rewarded with a vison of Gríma, her husband, unguarded, venerable, rumpled, and bare before her in a way far more intimate than nudity. The light of his affection burned rightly as its twin, desire.

“Much” she breathed, her voice husky and deep, strange to her own ears but exciting to Gríma all the same. He nudged her toward her large, now utterly inviting bed.

“May I?” He teased, sucking at a place along her collarbone that would show in any dress but one that covered her to her chin.

“Oh yes.” She moaned, pushing his robe to the floor. “Take me Gríma, make me your wife.” His hands tore the front of her shift in a frantic jerk, “Make me Queen.”

His hands continue their lusty work, but the light of affection disappeared completely behind a wall in his eyes.


End file.
